


Fire and Ice

by madame_faust



Category: The Hobbit (Jackson Movies), The Hobbit - All Media Types, The Hobbit - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Bearded Dwarf Women, F/M, Hairy Dwarf Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-02-12
Updated: 2018-02-12
Packaged: 2019-03-17 04:25:02
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,607
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13651383
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/madame_faust/pseuds/madame_faust
Summary: Halldóra's been working very hard lately and Fundin decides to step in and take care of her - after all, he's married to a scribe, stands to reason he'd be a cunning linguist.





	Fire and Ice

**Author's Note:**

> Forgive the pun in the summary (or not, I think it's funny). Here's that 1,000 words of Fundin/Dóra sex I promised! 
> 
> **Warning for:** Hairy, heterosexual dwarf **cunnilingus** with references to **masturbation.**

The servants _tried_ , but it wasn’t really their place to interfere. They brought Lady Halldóra her meat and drink and took it away again, untouched after the tray had sat idly by for hours while the clocks ticked the time away and her pen endlessly scratched against the paper.

Craft-fever wasn’t technically a medical phenomenon, though Healers had been known to treat the results - insomnia, exhaustion, or merely sore and aching muscles. But it was well known that the dwarven love of work could be taken to extremes by those who were so well Made for their chosen profession that it seemed a punishment to take time off from it. 

Though he was no healer Fundin Farinul knew when enough was enough - generally, when he’d spent so much time in the forge that every time he made to blow his nose he turned his handkerchief black, or when he found his parries coming just a hair more slowly than he’d like. Then he’d call it in for the day, hie off to get himself a drink, play with his sons, or spend a quiet evening with his wife. 

He knew his limits, unfortunately, his wife did not seem aware that she herself was possessed of any. When she skipped a noontime meal, well, she was a wee bitty thing and had never been as enamored of food as he was, so he could ignore that. When she slipped into bed long after he’d doused his candles, Fundin could drift off knowing that she wore many hats beneath the Mountain and it was quite a feat to find time to wear them all the course of a day. But when she shut and locked her workroom door, barring entry to the servants and the children, then he started to get worried. 

He had to plan his attack carefully. Years of marriage had taught him that Dóra despised being thought of as weak - even when she burdened herself with ten times more to do than even the studiest member of the Guard (namely, himself), if he suggested she might want to take a rest, she was likely to become insulted. 

And so he waited, patiently, biding his time until one day he could not recall his wife having stumbled into bed at _all_ the night previous. Then he went on the attack.

It was a subtle affair, calling on skills that were slack for lack of exercise - namely, the ability to keep quiet. Fundin was a loud fellow by nature, but he blessed well-oiled door hinges as he quietly, quietly eased the door of Dóra’s study open and poked his head in.

Aha! Master tactician as he was, he found her precisely as he expected to - with her head on her crooked arm, nodded off at work. 

This next bit required a bit of doing, but his wife was a deeper sleeper than he by far and he’d much practice at this next bit. Just hunker down, one arm under the knees, the other round the shoulder and...up. Her head lolled against her chest and her lips were slightly parted. Beautiful. Even with her spectacles crooked on her nose and one of her cheeks gone red from being pressed up against her arm for ages.   
So exhausted was she that she slept all the way up to their sleeping chamber, only rousing slightly when he lay her down upon the bed. 

“Hmmm,” she murmured, cracking her eyes open slightly. Quick as a wink, Fundin whisked her spectacles off her face and lay them on the bedside table. “I’ve got to get back to work…”

Dóra’s voice was faint and a bit rough, like a brittle piece of paper left out in the sun, prone to cracking. 

“Nah,” Fundin divested her of boots, tugged down her stockings and started in on her coat. The belt he took care with, sliding it out from under her as she gave a little squeak as he tugged the buckle free. 

“You got my bum,” she said in sleepy accusation, but she was reaching up and unclasping the beads that held her hair in place, depositing them in an untidy heap upon the table. They clinked and chimed like little bells. 

Fundin smiled at her and pulled the coat off her shoulders - this time she lifted her hips and helped him. She moved to sit up, but he gently took hold of her shoulders and lay her head down on the pillow. Her small, clever fingers stalled on the buckle of his own belt. 

“Nah,” he shook his head. “You’ve got to relax.” 

“I thought it was your brother who was the healer,” she smiled at him coyly, eyes squinting a bit to see him properly. “Or have you taken up a new course of study.”

“Not so new,” he admitted, glancing her over critically - nah, not nearly relaxed enough for his liking. “I’ve been studying you for a good long while now, nearly fifty years.”

“Mmm,” Dóra let her hands fall away from his belt. She started unlacing her trousers herself, but he pushed her hands aside and took up the task for her, starting at the neck of her tunic. “And have you obtained your mastery?”

“Not my place to say yea or nay,” he replied, easing the tunic up and over her shoulders. She lifted her arms to give him some help - her hair tumbled back down against the pillow and her beard came down over her breasts, which would never do. He tenderly brushed the long brown hair aside and watched her small brown nipples go hard in the cold air. Poor thing, prone to catching cold, from the tips of her fingers all the way down to her toes. He’d have to warm her up. “Only you know for certain.”

Dóra giggled, one hand sweeping her long, tousled hair off her body, fingers grazing the soft hair on her chest in a way that sent a flush of heat all through Fundin - there, what a matched set they were. She cool and light as air, he hot and heavy as stone. “Go on, then,” she smiled, tongue darting out between her lips. “Earn your mastery.”

He pulled her trousers down the hips that flared so prettily out from her waist - such a tiny thing, little slip of a lass, but the scars on her stomach, so pale and proud told the tale of two sons birthed and twice that number lost. 

Fundin thought he might begin at her mouth, but she wasn’t meant to do anything - after all, _he_ was meant to be earning his mastery. Halldóra, he knew, was already the master of him. He knew the taste of her lips, the warm press of them against his own, the feeling of that clever tongue that could speak a hundred tongues gone silent, but not still under his mouth. But today was not for that. Instead he started lower, covering her little body with his own immense frame, still clothed and warm against her deliciously cool skin.

He buried his face against her breasts, breathing warmth and leaving little sucking kisses against their weight and fullness. Not a warrior she, but a writer with nimble fingers and narrow shoulders, soft, soft, _soft_. 

She let out a little _eep!_ of pleasant impatience and even through his clothes, she felt his ardor press against her. 

“Wouldn’t you like to - ” she began, but he looked up and shook his head.

“Relax, m’darling,” he murmured, kissing down her stomach, where she was softer still, light brown hair barely caressing his cheek until he got to the thick black curls that had been his target all along. 

She threw her legs up over his shoulders, the muscles in her forearms tensing as she took hold of the blankets beneath her and only _then_ did he get her bum the way he wanted, giving it a quick squeeze and a smack as she laughed and dug her heels into his back, pressing herself closer to his mouth, damp and throbbing. 

“Oh, that’s lovely,” she murmured, her honeyed voice light as the wind. “Just there - ah. _Ah._ ”

Fundin wasn’t much of a talker, in mixed company. Certainly didn’t have his wife’s way with words, either language, or conversation. Couldn’t sing worth a damn either. But there were certain things he did with his tongue that pleased her, he fancied, more than the most flowery speeches or dearest love songs. 

Nearly gave him whiplash too, she did, as she cried out her pleasure, hips bucking like a new-broke horse beneath him. Still, he was able to bring himself to finish as well, loosing his trousers and discreetly brining himself off. But this had nought to do with him, really. It was for her. 

When he pulled back he saw a fine layer of sweat gleaming on her skin and the hair on her brow was plastered down and curling. Beautiful. Beguiling, even. Effortlessly bewitching. But if he didn’t do something she’d come over cold again. Wouldn’t do.

Fundin tucked her in beneath the blankets and shucked off his coat and kicked off his boots to join her

“Well?” he asked expectantly as she rolled into his arms, burying her face in his beard. “What do you say? Have I earned my mastery?”

“Oh, I’d say so,” she murmured, head against his chest, lashes resting on her cheek as her eyes fluttered closed. “Full marks. Well done, you.”

Fundin held her close and kissed the top of her head. Come to think of it, a sleep wouldn’t go amiss - he’d just earned his mastery, after all.


End file.
